


Turn the lights off, carry me home

by elliceluella



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: (figuratively and physically), And lurking in the shadows, Being a broody sad sack, Matt doing what he does best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 08:32:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11642814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliceluella/pseuds/elliceluella
Summary: Everything’s still the same. The way the soles of shoes slap against the sticky floor, that gross smell of disinfectant and grease that has grown into something endearing over time, the sound of cue sticks rapping against the pool table and billiard balls hitting each other. Raucous laughter, Josie’s gruff voice telling some drunk patron to go home- they’ve had enough.





	Turn the lights off, carry me home

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Josie's" square on my DD Bingo card.

He didn’t mean for it to happen, but one moment he’s chasing after a mugger with the shakes, scaring the shit out of the addict, and the next he’s _there_.

Everything’s still the same. The way soles of shoes slap against the sticky floor, that gross smell of disinfectant and grease that has grown into something endearing over time, the sound of cue sticks rapping against the pool table and billiard balls hitting each other. Raucous laughter, Josie’s gruff voice telling some drunk patron to go home- they’ve had enough.

Everything’s still the same; heart-achingly so, unchanged and untouched and Matt doesn’t know what to do but hide in the shadows cast by the bar and clench his fists repeatedly while a bruise rapidly forms on the inside of his cheek. He stops just before his teeth draw blood.

He’s been doing so well avoiding their usual spots he’d lulled himself into false security and false hope; maybe it’ll be another week, another month, another something or other before circumstances and the size of his neighborhood forced him to face an inevitability he’s been flinching from.

There’s no way to prepare for the warm ache that floods through him at the sound and smells of Josie’s. Matt sinks down to the ground, back pressed tight against the wall. Lets his imagination fill in the gaps that his senses can’t because proximity be damned, he’s a world away from everything that’s happening on the other side of those bricks.

Warm fingers that wrap around a cool bottle and tap along to the music playing overhead. Those warm fingers probably belong to someone in dark slacks and a sensible shirt, light blues or pinks.

Good leather shoes too, nice and expensive and new, judging by the way they sound against the floor, the quiet protests in the leather as it refuses to yield to the foot inside. Hair, probably blonde, brushes along the back of the collar. A bead of sweat makes its solo trek down his neck and into said collar.

There’s enough warmth in the laughter that bubbles out of that patron to fuel this journey Matt’s set out on the moment he counted the bricks as he slid down that wall. He presses himself closer, and pictures as best as he can blue eyes that sparkle, skin around them crinkling, a fair companion to that laughter. Round button nose and gentle curves gracing cheekbones on a face meant for smiles and laughter, never for frustration or fear.

Matt swallows once, hard. He might as well go all the way now. The patron asks Josie for another bottle and it’s easy for Matt to twist and mould that voice until he hears another. What would it sound like, calling his name again? How would it _feel_? He misses the sound of it and maybe fears it a little more. _You could always do something about that_ , a tired voice inside reminds him. Matt sighs and thumps his head against the cold bricks.

He stays until Josie grunts, “alright get your asses out of my bar” and plays _Closing Time_. Yet another tradition, another...thing, another living memory that’s stood the test of time and loss. It hurts, but he’s glad not everything’s gone.

He stays until Josie locks up and lets her tired sigh take him back to another time. Of three drunk friends and tipsy giggles and warm arms- when anything was possible and the future was, ironically for him, bright, bright, bright.

That night he dreams of many things long gone but the one thing that softly clings like finely spun silk when he wakes is an unmistakably familiar warm voice.

His alarm sounds just then. Matt turns it off with a weary sigh and makes to pick up his phone to check for messages. He pauses. Fingers hover above, just short of their target. His traitorous heart beats faster before he hears it again. Not the warm one from his dreams or last night’s surrogate, no.

The tired, persistent, _gnawing_ one. The one that made a suggestion last night, and is making it again. _You could always do something about that._

Matt sighs again. And then he reaches out, lets those fingers finally curl around his phone.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](ellicelluella.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
